One evening, not long after his twenty-first birthday, Jerome Edwards
went to Cyrus Robinson's store on an errand.
When he entered he found a large company assembled, swinging booted
legs over the counters, perched upon barrels and kegs, or tilting
back in the old scooping arm-chairs around the red-hot stove. These
last were the seats devoted to honor and age, when present, and they
were worthily filled that night. Men who seldom joined the lounging,
gossiping circle in the village store were there: Lawyer Means, John
Jennings, Colonel Lamson, Squire Merritt, even Doctor Seth Prescott,
and the minister, Solomon Wells.
The recent town-meeting, the elections and appropriations, accounted
in some measure for this unusual company, though the bitter weather
might have had something to do with it. Hard it was for any man that
night to pass windows glowing with firelight, and the inward swing of
hospitable doors; harder it was, when once within the radius of
warmth and human cheer, to leave it and plunge again into that
darkness of winter and death, which seemed like the very outer
desolation of souls.
The Squire's three cronies had been on their way to cards and punch
with him, but the winking radiance of the store windows had lured
them inside to warm themselves a bit before another half-mile down
the frozen road; and once there, sunken into the battered hollows of
the arm-chairs, within the swimming warmth from the stove, they had
remained. Their prospective host, Squire Eben Merritt, also had
shortly arrived, in quest of lemons for the brewing of his famous
punch, and had been nothing loath to await the pleasure of his
guests.
The minister had come in giddy, as if with strong drink, being
unable, even with the steady gravity of his mind, to control the
chilly trembling of his thin old shanks in their worn black
broadcloth. His cloak was thin; his daughter had tied a little black
silk shawl of her own around his neck for further protection; his
mildly ascetic old face peered over it, fairly mouthing and
chattering with the cold. He could scarcely salute the company in his
customary reverend and dignified manner.
Squire Eben sprang up and place his own chair in a warmer corner for
him, and the minister was not averse to settling therein and
postponing for a season the purchase of a quarter pound of tea, and
his shivering homeward pilgrimage.
Doctor Seth Prescott, who lived nearly across the way, had come over
after supper to prescribe for the storekeeper's wife, who had
lumbago, and joined the circle around the stove, seeing within it
such worthy companions as the lawyer and the Squire, and having room
made promptly and deferentially for him.
The discussion had been running high upon the subject of town
appropriations for the poor, until Doctor Prescott entered and the
grating arm-chairs made place for him, when there was a hush for a
moment. Ozias Lamb, hunched upon a keg on the outskirts, smiled
sardonically around at Adoniram Judd standing behind him.
"Cat's come," he said; "now the mice stop squeakin'." The men near
him chuckled.
Simon Basset, who, having arrived first, had the choice of seats, and
was stationed in the least rickety arm-chair the farthest from
draughts, ceased for a moment the rotatory motion of lantern jaws and
freed his mind upon the subject of the undue appropriations for the
poor.
"Ain't a town of this size in the State begins to lay out the money
we do to keep them good-for-nothin' paupers," said he, and chewed
again conclusively.
Doctor Prescott, not as yet condescending to speak, had made a slight
motion and frown of dissent, which the minister at his elbow saw.
Doctor Prescott was his pillar of the sanctuary, upholding himself
and his pulpit from financial and doctrinal downfall--his pillar even
of ideas and individual movements. Poor old Solomon Wells fairly
walked his road of life attached with invisible leading-strings to
Doctor Seth Prescott. He spoke when Simon Basset paused, and more
from his mentor's volition than his own. "The poor ye have always
with ye," said the minister, with pious and weighty dissent. Doctor
Prescott nodded.
Ozias Lamb squinted slowly around with ineffable sarcasm of
expression. He took in deliberately every detail of the two
men--Doctor Seth Prescott, the smallest in physical stature of
anybody there, yet as marked among them all as some local Napoleon,
and the one whom a stranger would first have noted, and the old
clergyman leaning towards him with a subtle inclination of mind as
well as body; then he spoke as Jerome entered.
Jerome laid the empty sack, which he had brought for meal, on the
counter, and stood about to listen with the rest. Squire Eben
Merritt, having given his chair to the minister and squared up his
great shoulders against a pile of boxes on the counter, was near him,
and saluted him with a friendly nod, which Jerome returned with a
more ardent flash of his black eyes than ever a girl had called forth
yet. Jerome adored this kindly Squire, against whom he was always
fiercely on his guard lest he tender him gratuitous favors, and his
indebtedness to whom was his great burden of life.
His Uncle Ozias did not notice him or pause in his harangue. "The
poor ye have always with ye, the poor ye have always with ye," he was
repeating, with a very snarl of sarcasm. "I reckon ye do; an' why?
Why is it that folks had the Man that give that sayin' to the world
with 'em, and made Him suffer and die? It was the same reason for
both. D'ye want to know what 'twas? Well, I'll tell ye--it don't take
a very sharp mind to ferret that out. It don't even take college
larnin'. It is because from the very foundation of this green airth
the rich and the wicked and the proud have had the mastery over it,
an' their horns have been exalted. The Lord knows they've got horns
to their own elevation an' the hurt of others, as much as any horned
animals, though none of us can see 'em sproutin', no matter how hard
we squint."
With that Ozias Lamb gave a quick glance, pointed with driest humor,
from under his bent brows at Simon Basset's great jumble of gray hair
and Doctor Prescott's spidery sprawl of red wig. A subdued and
half-alarmed chuckle ran through the company. Simon Basset chewed
imperturbably, but Doctor Seth Prescott's handsome face was pale with
controlled wrath.
Ozias continued: "I tell ye that is the reason for all the sufferin',
an' the wrongs, an' the crucifixion, on this earth. The rich are the
reason for it all; the rich are the reason for the poor. If the money
wa'n't in one pocket it would be in many; if the bread wa'n't all in
one cupboard there wouldn't be so many empty; if all the garments
wa'n't packed away in one chest there wouldn't so many go bare.
There's money enough, an' food enough, an' clothes enough in this
very town for the whole lot, an' it's the few that holds 'em that
makes the paupers."
Doctor Seth Prescott's mouth was a white line of suppression. Some of
the men exchanged glances of consternation. Cyrus Robinson's clerk,
Samson Loud, leaning over the counter beside his employer, said, "I
swan!" under his breath. As for Cyrus Robinson, he was doubtful
whether or not to order this turbulent spirit out of his domain,
especially since he was no longer a good customer of his, but worked
for and traded with the storekeeper in Dale.
He looked around at his son Elisha, who was married now these three
years to Abigail Mack, had two children, and a share in the business;
but he got no suggestion from him. Elisha, who had grown very stout,
sat comfortably on a half-barrel of sugar inside the counter, sucking
a stick of peppermint candy, unmoved by anything, even the entrance
of his old enemy, Jerome. As Cyrus Robinson was making up his mind to
say something, Doctor Seth Prescott spoke, coldly and magisterially,
without moving a muscle in his face, which was like a fine pale mask.
"May I ask Mr. Lamb," he said, "how long, in his judgment, when the
money shall have been divided and poured from one purse into many
others, when the loaves shall have been distributed among all the
empty cupboards, and when all the surplus garments have been
portioned out to the naked, this happy state of equal possessions
will last?"
"Well," replied Ozias Lamb, slowly, "I should say, takin' all things
into consideration--the graspin' qualities of them that had been
rich, and the spillin' qualities of them that had been poor, about
fourteen hours an' three-quarters. I might make it twenty-four--I
s'pose some might hang on to it overnight--but I guess on the whole
it's safer to call it fourteen an' three-quarters."
"Well," returned Doctor Prescott, "what then, Mr. Lamb?"
"Give it back again," said Ozias, shortly.
Squire Eben Merritt gave a great shout of mirth. "By the Lord Harry,"
he cried, "that's an idea!"
"It is an entirely erroneous system of charity which you propose, Mr.
Lamb," said Doctor Prescott; "such a constant disturbance and
shifting of the property balance would shake the financial basis of
the whole country. Our present system of one public charity, to
include all the poor of the town, is the only available one, in the
judgment of the ablest philanthropists in the country."
Ozias Lamb got off his keg, straightened his bowed shoulders as well
as he was able, and raised his right hand. "You call the poorhouse
righteous charity, do ye, Doctor Seth Prescott?" he demanded. "You
call it givin' in the name of the Lord?"
Doctor Prescott made no response; indeed, Ozias did not wait for one.
He plunged on in a very fury of crude oratory.
"It ain't charity!" he cried. "I tell ye what it is--it's a pushin'
an' hustlin' of the poor off the steps of the temple, an' your own
door-steps an' door-paths, to get 'em out of your sight an' sound,
where your purple an' fine linen won't sweep against their rags, an'
your delicate ears won't hear their groans, an' your delicate eyes
an' nose won't see nor scent their sores; where you yourselves, with
your own hands, won't have to nurse an' tend 'em. I tell ye, that
rich man in Scriptur' was a damned fool not to start a poorhouse, an'
not have Lazaruses layin' round his gate. He'd have been more
comfortable, an' _mebbe_ he'd have cheated hell so.
"You call it givin'--_givin'!_ You call livin' in that house over
there in the holler, workin' with rheumatic old joints, an' wearin'
stiff old fingers to the bone, not for honest hire, but for the bread
of charity, a gift, do ye? I tell ye, every pauper in that there
house that's got his senses after what he's been through, knows that
he pays for every cent he costs the town, either by the sweat of his
brow an' the labor of his feeble hands, or by the independence of his
soul."
Then Simon Basset spat, and shifted his quid and spoke. "Tell ye what
'tis, all of ye," said he--"it's mighty easy talkin' an' givin' away
gab instead of dollars. I'll bet ye anything ye'll put up that there
ain't one of ye out of the whole damned lot that 'ain't got any money
that would give it away if he had it."
"I would," declared a clear young voice from the outskirts of the
crowd. Everybody turned and looked, and saw Jerome beside Squire
Merritt, his handsome face all eager and challenging. Jerome was
nearly as tall as the Squire, though more slender, and there was not
a handsomer young fellow in the village. He had, in spite of his
shoemaking, a carriage like a prince, having overcome by some
erectness of his spirit his hereditary stoop.
Simon Basset looked at him. "If ye had a big fortune left ye, s'pose
ye'd give it all away, would ye?"
"Yes, sir, I would." Jerome blushed a little with a brave modesty
before the concentrated fire of eyes, but he never unbent his proud
young neck as he faced Simon Basset.
"S'pose ye'd give away every dollar?"
"Yes, sir, I would--every dollar."
"Lord!" ejaculated Simon Basset, and his bristling, grimy jaws worked
again.
Squire Eben Merritt looked at Jerome almost as he might have done at
his pretty Lucina. "By the Lord Harry, I believe you would, boy!" he
said, under his breath.
"Such idle talk is not to the purpose," Doctor Seth Prescott said,
with a stately aside to the minister, who nodded with the utter
accordance of motion of any satellite.
But Simon Basset spoke again, and as he spoke he hit the doctor, who
sat next him, a hard nudge in his broadcloth side with a sharp elbow.
"Stan' ye any amount ye want to put up that that young bob-squirt
won't give away a damned dollar, if he ever gits it to give," he
said, with a wink of curious confidential scorn.
"I do not bet," replied the doctor, shortly.
"Lord! ye needn't be pertickler, doctor; it's safe 'nough," returned
Simon Basset, with a sly roll of facetious eyes towards the company.
The doctor deigned no further reply.
"I'll stan' any man in this company anything he'll put up," cried
Simon Basset, who was getting aroused to a singular energy.
Nobody responded. Squire Eben Merritt, indeed, opened his mouth to
speak, then turned it off with a laugh. "I'd make the bet, boy," he
whispered to Jerome, "if it were anybody else that proposed it, but
that old--"
Simon Basset stood up; the men looked at him with wonder. His eyes
glowed with strange fire. The lawyer eyed him keenly. "I should think
from his face that the man was defending himself in the dock," he
whispered to Colonel Lamson.
"I'll tell ye what I'll do, then," shouted Simon Basset, "if ye won't
none of ye take me up. I'll be damned if I believe that any rich man
on the face of this earth is capable of givin' away every dollar he's
got, for the fear of the Lord or the love of his fellow-men. I'll be
damned if I believe, if the Lord Almighty spoke to him from on high,
and told him to, he'd do it, an' I'm goin' to prove that I don't
believe it. I'll tell ye all what I'll do. Lawyer Means is here, an'
he can take it down in black an' white, if he wants to, an' I'll sign
it reg'lar an' have it witnessed. If that young man there," he
pointed at Jerome, "ever comes into any property, an' gives away
every dollar of it, I'll give away one quarter of all I've got in the
world to the poor of this town, an' I'll take my oath on it.
"But there's more than that," continued Simon Basset. "I'll get a
condition before I do it. I call on my fellow-townsman here--I won't
say my fellow-Christian, 'cause he wouldn't think that much of a
compliment--to do the same thing. If he'll do it, I will; if he
won't, I won't." Simon Basset looked down at Doctor Prescott with
malicious triumph. Everybody stared at the two men.
"Why don't ye speak up, doctor--hey?" asked Simon Basset, finally.
"Because I do not consider such an outrageous proposition worthy of
consideration, Mr. Basset," returned the doctor, with a calm aside
elevation of his clear profile, and not the slightest quickening of
his even voice.
"Then ye don't believe there's a man livin' capable of givin' away
his all for the Lord an' His poor any more'n I do, an' I calculate
you jedge so from the workin's of your own heart an' knowin' what
you'd do in like case, jest like me," said Simon Basset.
Doctor Prescott made a quick motion, and the color flashed over his
thin face. "I made no such assertion," he said, hotly, for his temper
at last was up over his icy bonds of will.
"Looks so," said Simon Basset.
"You have no right to make such a statement, sir," returned the
doctor, and his lips seemed to cut the air like scissors.
"What is it, then?" returned the other. "Are you afraid the young
fellow will come into property, an' then you'll have to give up too
much to the Lord?"
The veins on Doctor Prescott's forehead swelled visibly as he looked
at Simon Basset's hateful, bantering face.
"There's another thing I'm willin' to promise," continued Simon
Basset. "If that young feller comes into money, an' gives it away,
I'll do more than give away a quarter of my property--I'll believe
anything after that. I'll get religion. But--I won't agree to do that
unless you back me up, doctor. That ought to induce you--the prospect
of savin' a brand from the burnin'; an' if I ain't a brand, I dun'no'
who is."
"I tell you, sir, I'll have nothing to do with it!" shouted Doctor
Prescott. The minister at his side looked pale and scared as a woman.
"Then," said Simon Basset, "it's settled. You an' me won't agree to
no sech damn foolishness, because we both on us know that there's no
sech Christian charity an' love as that in the world; an' if there
should turn out to be, we're afraid we'd have to do likewise. I
thought I was safe enough proposin' sech a plan, doctor."
There was a great shout of laughter, in spite of the respect for
Doctor Prescott. In the midst of it the doctor sprang to his feet,
looking as none of them had ever seen him look before. "Get a paper
and pen and ink," he cried, turning to Lawyer Means; "draw up the
document that this man proposes, and I will sign it!"